Luminescence
by Angel Commando
Summary: Newborn, they call her. As a baby Guardian - in more aspects than one - Cyra's got a lot of growing up to do if she ever hopes to become a full-fledged Guardian. And the Hive have taken interest in these Newborns as well. . .
1. Newborn, Pt 1

**Luminescence  
><strong>

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, you own this, and stealing is wrong, but my little fireteam is too adorable to ignore so. . . this happened. Sorry, Bungie.

**Summary**:

**Warnings: **Mild gore, allusions to injuries.

**Author's Notes: **"Finish all your other stories!" The little voice in the back of my head whisper.s

"No, don't do it!" Whispers another. Oh boy.

So, I've been playing Destiny like, nonstop. I've gotten to Crota twice, and it's as insane and lovable as ever. I always love going in with the right fireteam, you know? Bummer I have to work on the weekends - or at all - because whenever I do, I just think, "Man, I wonder what my friends in Destiny are doing right now!" And the cycle begins anew.

But anyway, this story, Lumi, is all about my own personal fireteam. Consider it a backstory, if you will. I just couldn't help myself. I love Cyra too much to abandon her, so she gt transmitted here. Also, if you notice any errors in this, you have a few options - PM me, and I'll get back to you (eventually, but it will happen!), or just straight up leave a review and I'll reply.

But anyway, I'll shut up, now. On to the story!

* * *

><p>Death was all-encompassing.<p>

I was soft, like a blanket, and it wrapped around her mind witha tender, sweet embrace. It took the sharp edge of everything away - all of the pain, the fear, the desperation, sorrow, anger. . . _everything_. And she had to admit - she was actually kind of grateful for it. there was nothing after death. Just blackness. Darkness. An eternity of nothing that stretched on and on and on. And yet, somehow, it was as if she was just sleeping. She was at peace, completely fine with the arms of the end wrapping around her. . . and yet, she was aware.

She knew she'd died, and she was completely satisfied with it. She'd met her end. She'd fought the good fight. The war she'd battled had been gritty, dark, and unspeakable. Before she was even eight, she'd lost both her mother and father to the Fallen. Whether they were Dregs or Vandals, she couldn't remember. She simply recalled a time a scout had approached her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and told her they were gone.

And that was that. Her childhood ended with those words: "Your mother and father are gone." And she was no longer a child - she became a warrior. Granted, there were limitations on what she could and couldn't do: physically, she was not as strong or as capable as an adult, but she could hold a gun, and was therefore able - and expected - to hold her own in a firefight. It was was a necessity, actually. Any child over the age of six was given a gun - there was no way a person _couldn't _fight.

You either fought. . . or you died. You became one of the billions who had passed away over the course of the war.

She'd chosen to fight.

She'd picked _life_.

Sure, the guns could be heavy, the rifles bent or rusted, the ammo scarce. Her bones could break, her skin would bruise and crack, and she would bleed - but that was life. Life was survival. Life was making the hard choices to ensured that you lived, and those that sought to kill you died. Life was pain. It was horror, it was grit, darkness, and hope, and frailty. It was a precious gift, taken from so many, but granted only to those who had the fortitude to last. And she'd been one of those lucky few.

Until that day. The day of her death, when her life had been ripped form her, just like everything else. But she'd given it a good run, hadn't she? In death, there was no longer any need for her to worry. She was finally free of all of the pains and horrors that life had presented to her on a silver platter and expected her to enjoy. In living, she'd been forced to swallow misery and all its jagged edges, and life expected her to smile like she enjoyed the pain, to say she loved how it tore into the very fabric of her being.

The warmth of the darkness increased by several degrees, and somehow, impossibly, in death, she stirred. A gentle, blue light pierced through the veil, and she stared at it, transfixed. For all the time she'd been asleep, she had never seen any sort of color. And yet, there it was, creating large swatches back and forth, sweeping in a methodical pattern, as if it were looking for something. She watched as it approached, drawing closer, until finally it was shining right into her eyes.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, she felt emotion again. She felt anxiety. The light speared into her eyes, making her want to recoil, but that was impossible. Moving away from the light was beyond her abilities. Something feathered across her mind, touching her in an alien way.

"_Found you_." It said, speaking in a tongue she did not understand, but she did.

The light narrowed, becoming a fine laser point that scanned over her, and then it exploded.

She flinched backward, somehow, as the light came closer and closer, turning a vast array of colors. She moved, striving to get away from it, but the light simply expanded, leaving no place for her to run. And she watched as the darkness, her safety, her peace, retreated from it, leaving her with colors and warmth - things she hadn't experienced in an eternity. She screamed, the noise soundless, but her throat itched, and a strange, warbled sound came from her.

Hands reached into the light, securing her, roughly pulling her from the darkness. And then she was moving again, but she wasn't entirely how, and her the warbled keening that was her voice was stripped from her a second time. Another sensation came back to her: pain.

She heard her bones crack, the wet rasp of muscles as they slid over them, and felt pain as scarred, smooth skin encased it all, giving her form, capturing the essence that had been floating in the void. The hand restraining her left, but only for a moment, and then it reached _inside _of her, where it had no business going. Before, she felt light, and now, she felt heavy, as wet blobs of muscle slid into her. Her voice returned as she breathed for the first time in an eternity, and she could _hear _it. Agony ripped through her, hot and heavy, as she felt the last, most important part of her slide into place.

Electricity jolted through her, a brilliant shade of blue and gold, charging that last, precious organ, and it beat. Once, twice, stronger and stronger, feeling her muscles creak, her palm against her gloves. finally, she looked up, and what she saw made her confused.

It was. . . It was Exodus.

She was sure of that. With every blink, the darkness dissipated, and the world came into focus with a sharpness and clarity she didn't remember ever having. But there was the building that she'd gotten her ammo from, here was the high plain that she'd. . . she'd what? She shook her head, an ache already forming there. The plains. The ammo. The building. She remembered. . . A man. A man she'd known well, trusted well, blood dripping from a deep gash on his forehead.

". . . _hold the defenses. . . ship needs time. . ._"

What had he said before that, though?

Another voice peppered her thoughts, but she hardly paid it any attention. Something else, something important, was on the very tip of her tongue, just waiting for her to say it. . . She just needed to remember. She frowned, and focused. The man became clearer in her mind. A strong man, slightly hobbled on one leg from a lucky slug that had pegged him years prior, a man without fear, filled with bravery. He was speaking to her, and it was something very urgent.

". . . _dian_. . ." The other voice said, trying to distract her. She ignored it.

Something flitted in front of her face, blocking her view of their impromptu command post. She blinked as she stared into a bright blue light. That looked familiar, didn't it? Yeah, she realized, it did. She remembered running out into the field, a bandana cinched tight around her forehead, keeping the blood and sweat out of her eyes-

"_Gu. . . an!_"

". . . _we have to hold the defenses. The ship needs time to recalibrate. . ._"

-but that hadn't helped, in the end. She remembered hot, slicing pain as pulse shots tore though her legs and her stomach, forcing her to her knees-

"_Guard. . . an!_"

"_. . . we have to hold the defenses. The ship needs time to recalibrate after taking that blow._"

-and with shaking hands, she'd pressed them against her stomach, and she remembered smiling. That was it. Two seconds, and she was out. There were no medics or medkits for her to turn to, nothing in her time of need. Her blood was quickly staining her legs and her hands, leeching warmth out of her body. Above her, she heard the sound of a skiff descending, and she'd craned her neck back right as a canon locked onto her, charged, and a bright blue blast screamed for her-

"_Guardian!_"

"_Cyra, we have to hold the defenses!_"

"GUARDIAN!

And boom.

Death.

Only when she blinked, she wasn't dead. She was alive, kneeling on the empty plain that was packed over with ice and snow.

Cyra stiffened with a gasp, blinking as the blue light made her eyes constrict and narrow painfully. She sucked in noisy gulps of air as her lungs struggled to function, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest as she snapped back to reality. Gone were the Fallen skiffs and Dregs and Vandals. Around her stretched a barren, lifeless husk of rusted metal and warped debris. A decaying skeleton, bony fingers reaching out to her, curled in death.

Where was everything? Where was the Captain? Where were the people, the colony ships? Where was the Fallen skiff that had been directly overhead, firing a pulse laser directly at her face? Her mind buzzed with a trillion unanswered questions, and she sucked in air as the world spun around her, a dizzying array of a thousand colors and distorted shapes. The only constant was the bright blue light that hovered directly in front of her face.

"Guardian! Guardian, get up, Guardian! You have to get up!" The mechanical, strangely female voice, implored her. It was begging, sounding on the edge of desperation as it continued, "Please, you must run! You must stand and _run!_"

Instead, Cyra tilted her head down, inspecting her stomach. Shaking hands, encased in threadbare gloves, pressed against her stomach. Where was her mortal wound, the blood? She died. She knew she died. She remembered feeling the pain, the heat, and then the nothing. But now she was _here_. She was alive, after so long, and she could feel her heart beating in her chest, the weight of her organs inside of her. She was no longer a shapeless, massless ghost floating around the abyss. She was alive. She was _human _again.

"Guardian, _please! _Please, you _must _listen! You have to _run!_" The mechanical voice cried, on the verge of screaming, its tone cracking as its volume grew. Maybe it was the distress that finally registered in her mind, the urgency that she heard. Before she died, the Captain had sounded the same way.

(_"But if we can't?_" She said, breathlessly, "_What will we do?"_

His mouth was set in a grim line as he looked at her. "_We save as many as we can._")

Cyra tilted her head up, and she stared at the curious ball of metal and technology that hovered in the air. The longer she stared, the more. . . connected she felt. It was difficult to describe, but there was something about the little ball that she couldn't shake. It was a part of her. She could _feel _it, in a way she couldn't feel her arms or her legs or her mind. It felt like it was an extension of her heartbeat, pulsing in the air in front of her.

It was important to her, whatever it was. She knew that much.

She moved her mouth, and at first, no words emerged. But then she felt the familiar sensation of her throat moving, of vibrations in her chest, and a raspy, hoarse voice escaped her. "What are you?" She murmured. The little ball shuddered, and angrily sped forward, ramming itself against her chest.

"_Move! _Move, run, do something, or you will _die!_"

With speed she didn't know she had, Cyra reached out and cupped the little mechanical wonder in her hands. "What are you talking about?" She rasped.

In the distance, she heard a strange noise. A wail. A scream. The sound of an animal in the throes of death. In her hands, the little machine shivered, and Cyra cupped it closer to her chest. _It must be so cold. . . _Maybe her body heat would help?

"Please," The tiny machine begged in a broken voice, "Please, I don't want to see you die a second time. They're coming. If you can get up, if you run, you can make it."

On the crest of a nearby hill, she could see blurry forms moving. On the wind, she could smell a terrible scent - something like rotting meat. She perked up, groggily staring out at the hill, where the blobs of color began to come into focus. Whatever they were, they sure as hell weren't human, that much she was positive of.

"Are you afraid of them?" She asked.

"Why aren't you running?" The machine sobbed, "I searched so long for you? Why? Why, why why. . ."

The rotting meat came closer, sprinting to her. The little metal ball shuddered in her hands, and wedged itself underneath her chestplate. She felt more whole with it there, right next to her heart. She heard a footstep next to her, and she craned her neck back, looking up, up, up, at something encased in red and black armor. It looked over her, one large hand reached down, each finger capped with a terrifying talon that would pierce her skin and break her bones with ease.

Another shriek sounded behind her, and as the hand wrapped around her throat, the dizzying haze that clouded Cyra's mind finally slipped away, and was replaced with something else, something more primal and basic. Cyra stiffened as it hefted her up with pathetic ease, dangling her like a small child, and automatically, her hands tried clawing at his throat, attempting to free herself. In her breastplate, she heard the small machine sob and whimper.

As the creature looked at her, pinning a glowing green eye to her own, Cyra finally felt an emotion break through the fog: fear.

It growled, hands tightened around her throat.

Cyra screamed.


	2. Newborn, Pt 2

**Luminescence  
><strong>

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, you own this, and stealing is wrong, but my little fireteam is too adorable to ignore so. . . this happened. Sorry, Bungie.

**Summary**: Newborn, they call her. As a baby Guardian - in more aspects than one - Cyra's got a lot of growing up to do if she ever hopes to be a full-fledged Guardian. But the Hive have taken an interest in these Newborn as well. . .

**Warnings: **Mild gore, some mild language, and kickassery.

**Author's Notes: **I like silly names, so you get this.

Not too much to say this time, except whew, glad we got over the initial prologue hump. I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot, and I didn't mean for it to get so long, so. . . LOL. That happened. The characters I introduced this chapter will be explored later on in the story, but poor Cyra was paying too much attention to them at the time so. . . yes.

Anyway, read and enjoy! And thanks to Karehen and Valkyrie for their reviews. I hope you like!

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><p><em> I can't breathe.<em>

Clench.

_I can't breathe!_

She heard the fabric around her throat creak as bits of leather and armor rubbed against each other, and she felt a warmth spread over her neck as the talons pierced her skin.

_I can't _breathe!

Whatever stupid haze had fogged her lucidity was long gone. Fear, adrenaline, and terror were rushing through her veins, sharpening everything to a crystal clearness. She kicked her legs, trying to gain some leverage, some foothold to escape the monster's grip, but she only met empty air. Her fingers pried and clawed at the hand that was wrapped around her throat, and she felt the fabric rip and give away as it caught on rough edges of its hand. As if curious about her struggle, the red creature slowly moved her toward, closer to it, and a shiver crawled down Cyra's spine as she realized it didn't have one eye - it had _three_.

A low, menacing growl rumbled from it, and whether it was bravery, sheer stupidity, or just the human desire to want to _breathe_, Cyra cocked her fist back and punched it in the face. And, to her utter amazement, she actually connected, striking a glossy faceplate that acted as a protective cover to the eyes. For a moment, there was silence, but then the creature _roared _- a sound filled with more indignation than pain - and Cyra discovered in short order that she'd done something very, _very _stupid.

The creature released her - and Cyra sucked in a noisy, grateful breath of air - and she dropped to her feet, swaying, about to collapse onto the ground. The next moment, however, and Cyra found herself uttering a sharp cry as a massive arm swiped across her stomach, body checking her with more force than she could have believed. She wheezed, feeling like her throat was closing all over again, and taking advantage of her stun, it decided to punch her. A solid fist dove right into her solar plexus, nearly so big it could wrap around her whole waist if it wanted, and Cyra went tumbling over the ground.

It felt like it had driven her stomach up into her throat, and her lungs couldn't decide whether or not they wanted to remain open or closed. She sucked in a few, tiny sips of air, and a lance of fear wove through her as she actually tasted blood on her tongue. What the hell had that thing done to her? Caused internal bleeding just from _punching _her? There was no way that was possible.

Something hissed next to her head, and she stiffened, craning her neck back. Something looked back at her, reeking of rotting meat (she had to resist the urge to gag, the smell was so strong), but look wasn't quite the right word. She wasn't sure how it even looked - it had no eyes. Just a glossy, somewhat smooth skull. It inched closer to her, skeletal and reminding her of death itself, and Cyra got to her hands and knees, ready to jump up to her feet and finally run - but the larger, pissed-off monster reached her first.

From that point on, Cyra wasn't exactly sure what happened. She just remembered the silver flash of a blade as it swept up, neatly cracking her breastplate and flipping her over - and then another punch. And another. And another.

She was absolutely positive that she heard another crack, this one not from the armor - it came from inside. A sharp pain sliced through her chest, and when she coughed, blood bubbled out onto her lips, dribbling down her chin. She laid there, body wracked with agony, her breaths a wheezing pant.

_I'm going to die like this_, she thought, somewhat deliriously, _. . . but wasn't I already dead? Is this a nightmare?_

Whatever it was, she was ready to give up on it. She just wanted that peace back, the blackness, the nothing. It was better than this, the blood, the pain. The nightmare. She just wanted it to be over, because, in truth, she'd forgotten just how damn _hard _it was to be alive, to try and survive. Dying was so much simpler. . .

Through her hazy attention, she found the red hulking beast easing away, as if satisfied with her work. Something screeched in the air, and more of the skeletal monsters tried to rush forward, as though excited at the prospect of slicing into her - but just as quickly backed away. The screeching stopped, and a thick, oppressive silence laid over the air, weighing Cyra down. Something drew nearer, something that made her very skin crawl, and she blinked as something else came into focus.

It was hard to describe it - but it floated in the air, and also shared the sharp talons that the rest of the monsters did. Something dripped from it, and Cyra jumped as molten hot goop splashed onto her arm, singeing it, scalding her through her clothes, and she tried to flinch away from it, but she was too tired - too pained. She laid there, breathing shallowly, feeling the little ball of metal shivering against her chest, and she realized, far too late, that it wasn't cold. It was _terrified_.

_Thunk._

Cyra frowned, not at all understanding why her chest had just jerked, and stupidly, she looked down, and found. . . a hand. A hand, dripping with the dark sludge, sticking out her chest. Well, no, that wasn't quite right - it was trying, but the talons were having a hard time breaching through the surprisingly durable armor. But. . . But it already _had_. She could see more blood, mixing up with the black crap, oozing out around the creature's fingers.

Under her breastplate, her skin felt like it was on fire, acid and steel wool scrubbing against it, but the tiny metal ball let out a small, mechanical shriek as the goop finally hit it.

And _then _the agony hit.

If Cyra thought she'd screamed before, she was so, so mistaken.

In the air above her, over her screams, she swore she heard the _thing _let out a mirthless chuckle.

* * *

><p>"They're avoiding the area today." He said, shouldering his scout rifle.<p>

He didn't have to worry too much about the last Dreg that was trying - not very successfully - to sneak up behind him. He let it think that it was, it was the kind thing to do, after all. Poor Dreg hadn't yet realized that the rest of its crew had already been wiped off the face of the earth. Below him on the plains of the Mothyards, Valore walked over to a nearby airplane and peered through its interior. He knew he was heard, but he only received a noncommittal hum in reply from Valore.

". . . _There's nothing here that Holliday would want. Fallen have picked it clean._"

"_Then what the hell are we standing around here, wasting our time for? Let's go! There's a Crucible tournament coming up soon, and I want us to sign up, thank you very much._"

The Dreg decided it would be a good time to swipe. He almost felt sorry for the alien when he caught its wrist, spun around, pulled out his own knife and buried it deep into its throat. Ether pulsed out of the wound, and he calmly picked out his knife and wiped it on the Dreg's arm before it collapsed into a twitching pile on the ground.

"_I've no need to prove myself in another one of Lord Saxx's escapades. The Iron Banner holds nothing of interest for me._" Valore continued, his voice calmly deadpanning on the commlink.

"_What?!_"

"_Now the Trials of Osiris. . ._" Valore continued, "_In honor of my Warlock bretheren, you may find me participating in._"

Terry, their fireteam's only Titan, had had quite enough of the matter.

"_We're _all _entering!_" He demanded, striding up fearlessly to the Warlock.

Valore simply turned to look at Terry, who was fuming like a child. "_The crucible is an honorable past time_-"

"_It. Is. _Sacred!_" _The Titan hissed.

"_-but I have responsibilities in my Vanguard. Unless you would like to explain to Ikora that I could not go the moon for scouting purposes?_"

Terry gave a low growl, and then spun around and pinned him with a look.

"_Kesh! Kesh, I need you for this! We can do it, you and me. We don't need any stupid _Warlocks_."_

Kesh stood there, weighing his opportunities. Finally, after a moment deliberation, he nodded. "I don't see why not. I'll even bring Kade this time."

At that, Terry perked up. "_Kade's back?_"

Kesh nodded again. "Fresh out of the jungles. He was charged with escort duty for a fireteam to the Archives. He'll be happy not to return to Venus again soon - the Vex seemed to irritate him."

Valore and Terry made their way back over the plains, to Kesh, and when they rejoined, the trio opted to walk back to the transmat point. While a Guardian could technically transmat back to their ship from anywhere on-world, Kesh knew he enjoyed taking his time, walking around, and soaking in the decayed glory of Old Russia. It was where they all belonged - in the thick of the fight, looking for trouble. Amanda Holliday had posted a bounty for fresh ship parts, and Kesh, who had been enjoying some leisurely down time, had received a very eager request from Terry.

Before long, the Titan had wrangled a fireteam together, and they'd been back down to Old Russia.

But the firefight that Kesh had been looking for had been suspiciously absent. The Fallen had left the Mothyards oddly empty, and the Steppes had echoed the same. Still, the Fallen couldn't leave Old Russia alone for very long, and Kesh knew that they'd be back soon. And when they were, he'd be back in the thick of the firefight again, the Exo knew himself too well - the need for a good fight ran through his circuitry.

Within a few minutes, the fireteam had made it back to the original transmat point, and Valore offered a gusty sigh. "I don't think Holliday will appreciate Guardians coming back empty handed."

Kesh offered him a shrug. "Not much that can be done, unless you'd like to donate glimmer?"

"I need all of my glimmer. . . broke my armor last week." Terry grumbled.

Kesh smiled. Terry, being brash and irrational - as usual - had decided that dropping down on a Fallen Captain and punching him in the face had been the best course of action. He hadn't expected the Captain to punch him back - or to break his armor. And armor repairs, as everyone in the Tower knew, were always an expensive glimmer bill. As they hiked up the short hill, Kesh summoned his Ghost, who blinked and shuttered an optic up at him.

"Maybe we'll have better luck tomorrow." His Ghost offered.

"Maybe."

Terry summoned his, but Valore, Kesh noted, was busy staring at a rotting building on the other side of the Steppes. The Warlock seemed enraptured by it, unable to look away. He took a few steps forward, and Kesh looked down at his Ghost, who immediately transmatted back into his armor.

"Valore?" Kesh prompted.

For a moment, the Warlock didn't respond. But finally, he did, pointing to the building.

"On the other side of the Divide. There's something there."

"What is it?" Terry asked.

Valore went quiet before replying, "I don't know. But we have to go there."

Terry and Kesh shared an exchange, before Kesh unslung his rifle and held it. "Let's go."

Terry grumbled again, but without protesting, shouldered his shotgun. Making their way down the hill, the Guardians trekked across the Steppes without much trouble. They entered the building, but the farther in he walked, the more uneasy Kesh felt. There was something heavy and weighted in the air, and Kesh didn't like it. His grip on his gun tightened, and several of his battle programs began to activate, anticipating some kind of ambush. Next to him, the humans were undergoing the same change - their muscles were tensing, their heart rates rising. . .

And then a shrill, female scream split the air. For a moment, the three Guardians stopped, and looked at each other, but Valore's Ghost sprang into the air, shell spinning at a rate that made it blur.

"A Newborn!" The Ghost exclaimed, "A Newborn is with the Hive!"

_Newborn? _Kesh thought, jerking his head to the snow-covered exit of the the building. A ruined truck sat there, but beyond that, Kesh saw the telltale silver body of a Thrall sprinting away from them. The scream sounded again, making Kesh's circuits shiver. For a moment, just a quick, small flash of a moment, the Divide dissipated, and he was back in the worst firefight of his life. Everywhere he looked, shots were bouncing off of Fallen and Guardian alike, and he kept seeing his brothers and sisters in arms falling, Ghosts dying, Saxx's voice yelling out across the battlefield-

But then he was back.

"Let's go!" Valore barked, running forward. Terry was right next to him, and Kesh hesitated just a moment before he followed at the tail end of their party. As they popped out of the building and into the Divide, Kesh saw things that didn't quite make a whole lot of sense. A ring of Knights stood by impassively, as if curiously spectating, and just a small bit away there was a Wizard - a type of which Kesh hadn't run into before - was hovering over a Newborn, who was frantically clawing at its arm, which was sinking further and further into the Newborn's chest.

Terry didn't waste any time. He sprinted forward, Light gathering around his armor, and with a powerful jump, launched himself into the air and struck the ground with enough force for the air to _crack_. The ground crackled and pulsed as Arc Light sped forward, enveloping and destroying the nearest ring of Acolytes and Thralls. They died, screaming, as their bodies turned to ash and burnt away to nothing. Kesh was quick to snap his rifle up, lining the sights with the nearest Knight, who thought it would be intelligent enough to try and attack the Titan as he got up again. The Knight's head snapped back as bullets cracked through its tough armor, and stunned it. Terry did the rest, running up to it and punching the Knight, who also went down in a blaze of ash.

Valore ran forward, Void energy gathering at his fingertips as he took to the air and thrust his hand forward, channeling a Nova Bomb. More Acolytes, Thralls, and Knights fell as the veteran Guardians waged their assault, breaking their ranks. Kesh sprinted forward himself, sliding right between the Titan and the Warlock as they began firing, creating a path for him. The scout rifle was no sniper rifle, but Kesh was handy with both. Coming up in a crouch, the Hunter brought the scope to his optic and took careful aim before he fired.

The Wizard jerked as the bullet struck her in the shoulder, and she screeched, an unholy sound, but refused to disengage from the Newborn. Instead, it swiped its arm across, summoning a poisonous bubble of miasma that surrounded them both, concealing them from view. Kesh cursed - the Newborn wouldn't last long in the bubble.

It was no secret that the Hive had taken a keen interest in the Traveler and its Light. There were records of Ghosts being taken, and pumped for information. Even further, there were records of heinous experiments on Guardians. . . It was little wonder why they were tormenting the Newborn. _They probably want to dissect it._

In response to the Wizard's cry, balls of acid-green transmatter formed in the air, quickly dispensing Thralls and Acolytes. This time, Terry cursed, and the Titan took to sprinting to and fro in the battlefield, pumping Hive full of lead with his shotgun, and finishing those survivors off with a quick punch. Valore was close behind him, and Kesh offered the Warlock cover as he weaved and danced through the hordes of unnatural enemies, getting closer and closer to the Wizard and her prey.

When he was close enough, the Warlock summoned another ball of Void energy.

"Newborn!" He shouted, "Use your Light! Break free!"

"_Valore!_" Kesh cried out, finger hovering over the trigger. There was no way to shoot the threat, but as Valore's head snapped up, he knew it was obvious the Warlock had seen it.

Kesh watched helplessly as a Knight jumped through the Wizard's miasma, sword raised and brought down in a quick silver flash. Valore let out a pained cry as the sword damn near split him in two, and he collapsed onto the ground, blood leaking onto the snow. Kesh sprinted forward, firing at the Hive stupid enough to try and approach him, and as he drew closer, watching as the Knight raised the sword to slaughter the Warlock, he drew his throwing knife and planted it squarely in the Knight's cracked visor.

It roared in agony, stumbling backward, affording Kesh enough time to grab the wounded Warlock and heft him back, away from the Knights that were trying to close in around them. Terry was there a moment later, Light crackling around his arms as he thrust them out, conjuring a Ward of Dawn. Satisfied with their momentary protection, Kesh laid Valore out on the ground, and was relieved to find the Warlock's Ghost rapidly repairing the damage, reconfiguring the human's body.

"The Newborn won't last much longer." Kesh said, taking precious moments in the Ward to reload.

The Exo could see rage filter across the Titan's frame. "Bastards." He seethed.

The Hunter turned to the Warlock, who was groggily coming to. "Valore, how much longer?"

"Just need a moment. . ." The Warlock said, weakly.

_A moment we don't have_, the Exo thought with a heavy heart pump. Already, the Newborn's cries of pain were growing weaker as the miasma darkened, their forms blurring out entirely.

* * *

><p>Cyra was trapped in a hazy twilight of agony and fire.<p>

When she breathed, it felt as though acid had been poured down her throat, flooding her body with poisonous sludge. And in return, it made everything _burn_. But the real pain radiated from her chestplate, where the talons kept driving down deeper and deeper, as if searching for her heart. Above her, the beast trilled, in some strange sort of pleasurable way, as if her suffering brought her joy. And Cyra wanted to cry, all over again. She was scared shitless. Here she was, not really sure if she was really alive or dead, but she was fairly certain she was going to die again if this continued.

She'd lived through worse than this, hadn't she?

. . . Hadn't she?

Would it be so bad to give up? She'd fought once, and she'd only lived a handful of years. And now, here she was, on the cusp of dying a second time. _Life is a precious gift, taken from so many, but gifted to those who have the courage to last_. Courage. . . If she died, would that make her a coward? In her chestplate, she heard the little ball whimper.

"If I die, so do you. Again." It whispered, voice barely audible.

Yes, Cyra realized in a strange moment of clarity.

Giving up _would _make her a coward.

Inexplicably, she was momentarily removed from her body. And Cyra realized she was sick of being afraid. She was _tired _of always living with fear in her heart, of being terrified of looking into the darkness and waiting to see what would jump out and try to kill her. Most importantly, she hated that she didn't have the power to defend herself. Here she was, just laying down and _taking it_. She was just _waiting _to die. When she sank back into her body, her fear evaporated as sheer, unadulterated _rage_ replaced it.

Above her, the creature quirked its head, as if sensing a change, and Cyra glared up at it. Outside of the black bubble surrounding her, Cyra was sure she heard voices, telling her to fight, to struggle, to _survive_. And goddammit, that was exactly what she was going to do. Energy rushed through her, crackling through her veins and making her feel _alive_. Instinctively, on her hip, she knew there was a small, simple knife just waiting for her to grab it. Abandoning the hope of pulling the claws of the monster out of her chest, Cyra reached down, grabbing the hilt of the knife, and as soon as he hand connected, bright, beautiful blue light flashed around her.

And her body knew what to do.

She reared her arm back as much as she was able and thrust the knife forward, into the neck of the creature. It screamed in agony, but Cyra yanked the knife out and plunged it in again, making the wound worse. With every strike, light flashed and cracked around them both, until finally it exploded, shattering the dark bubble. Cyra channeled everything she had - all of her grief, her confusion, her pain, her _rage_, and with a battle cry, gathered her feet underneath her and kicked. The monster dislodged, the claws finally coming free, and her body moved without her permission, _survive _and _fight _taking control. She moved, sprinting forward, the knife hilt clenched tightly in her hand, and she struck out at the creature, and one final blow was all the monster could take. It burnt away, disintegrating into dust, but Cyra didn't revel in her victory.

More monsters were already pressing in around her - and she rushed forward to meet them, swinging her knife. Every struck made the light explode, sending out jolting electric currents that pushed the monsters back. The one that had punched her, made her bleed - she got him next, along with a few of the smooth-skulled ones, and she had just enough energy for one more before the light - the power - began to evaporate inside of her, leaving her standing there, and breathing heavily.

In her chestplate, the little machine breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, murmuring words she didn't hear before going quiet.

Something dissipated with a noisy _crack_, and Cyra jumped, startled.

Three more armored shapes stood there, looking roughly human - but so had the ones in red. One of them took a step towards her, and Cyra glanced down at her knife. It wasn't covered in the blue light anymore, and she doubted she could make more. She was exhausted, running on fumes of fumes, and already, more of the screeches were drawing closer.

_Where's Captain? He'll know what to do. I have to find a safe place to contact him. . ._

The person took another step closer, and with a decisive action, Cyra holstered her knife, spun on her heel and ran the other way. She didn't know who they were - didn't know what any of this was - but she'd be damned if she stuck around. She had to find Captain. Voices called out to her back, but she ignored them. Blood dribbled over her chestplate, and Cyra clapped a hand over the round holes in a futile hope of stemming the blood.

The ammo hut was right in front of her - the last place she'd seen Captain. A red-armored creature tried to strike her, but she ducked under its blow and dashed inside of the building, plunging into the wreckage of it. Captain had been there, she was positive of it. When she found him, she'd get an explanation, an order - _something_. Moments passed before Cyra realized she'd stopped moving. . . because there was nowhere else to go. The roof had collapsed long ago, creating a small hole she'd been able to shimmy through. It was quiet, finally, but the Captain was nowhere to be found.

With a wet sound, Cyra finally collapsed onto her knees, her shoulder pressing against a steel beam.

Tears built in her eyes, also to Cyra's confusion - why the hell should she cry? She was finally resting, and she was sure she'd find Captain soon.

She heard a noise behind her, and sluggishly turned her head. There, in the small hole she'd shimmied into, was. . . A machine? Well, yeah, she supposed, it had to be a machine. Human eyes didn't glow. He didn't have hair, just a smooth skull (or what she supposed was a skull), and complicated-looking machinery combining together to form a face that passed as roughly human.

"Hey." It said, sounding male, "Hey, it's alright. Here. Come here."

She stared, not moving.

Go back out of the safe house? No, she'd rather just stay there and watch as her blood continued to drip onto the ground. She was alright in the building. Captain had to come back eventually, didn't he?

"I understand. You're afraid. When I was a Newborn, I was scared, too. But I know you can be brave. I just saw you do it."

_Newborn?_

He stretched a hand in, and Cyra looked at it, momentarily relieved. There was five fingers, no talons, just gloves covered with small armor pieces.

"I need you to trust me - you're among friends now. I'm a Guardian, just like you. But I have to ask you to be brave - for me."

Behind him, she saw more of the red armor, and a purple bullet impacted with his shoulder. He jerked, but he didn't make a sound or move. He just crouched there, one hand reaching out for her, gentle blue, glowing eyes staring at her. And for some inexplicable reason, Cyra felt like she _could _trust him. He reminded her of Captain. With a shaking arm, she pressed it forward, and it felt like an eternity before she managed it, but she slipped her hand into his own.

And quicker than she could blink, he latched onto her and dragged her from the small hole the wreckage had provided, crushing her against his chest. A roar - promising pain and revenge - made Cyra's ears ring, and she squeaked as she saw more of the red armored beasts charging them - three in total. More than she knew she could handle. One of them sliced down, and the man took them both down to the floor. Cyra laid there, watching as he crouched, hands grasping at a hilt that began to materialize out of thin air. A bright, golden light burst from the robot man's body, and he lined up a gun to the monsters, taking careful, precise aim before he fired.

One shot was all he needed. They all died, one at a time, as he killed them with ease, and his gun fizzled away out of existence.

More monsters charged them - these ones bearing guns - and the robot man cursed as one of them fired, making Cyra's ears pop as it exploded overhead. He dove down, crouching over her and covering her. Cyra watched in muted disinterest as the monsters came closer, sensing victory. . . and then bright, beautiful sunlight began to fill the room. It grew warm, just a tick over uncomfortable, but the monsters didn't fare so well. They burned, screeching in agony, before they fizzled away to dust.

And as the sunlight faded, darkness finally began to cobweb over Cyra's vision.

"_Newborn? Newborn!_" A hand shook her shoulder, trying to wake her, but the peace that sleep offered was a much more enticing offer.

She continued to fade, only remaining partially awake as she felt, more than saw, more people approaching.

"_No, Kesh, you're wounded. Valore, you're just as bad. Willow, page the medical deck for me. Tell them we have three incoming, one a Newborn."_

A mechanical chirrup.

"_I'm fine_-"

"_Shut up and move. Newborn Hunter or not, your right ligament got severed. Valore, damn you, you nearly got sliced in half. _Move, _both of you. this is what I get for not creating a Titan fireteam. . ._"

Arms slid under her, effortlessly picking her up, and Cyra breathed shallowly as a twinge of pain in her chest made her wake up slightly.

"_Kesh, subspace her helmet. Her Ghost is offline - see it there, under the breastplate? - let's see if we lost any vital parts of the face. Helmet was cracked to hell and back_."

She felt fingers at the back of her neck, a small pressure, and then cool, winter air struck her face. For a moment, there was silence, and then somebody let out a sound rather like a humorless chuckle.

"_Been alive a long time_," The voice said, "_But I'll admit it. . . this is a first_."


	3. Lucid

**Luminescence  
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**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, you own this, and stealing is wrong, but my little fireteam is too adorable to ignore so. . . this happened. Sorry, Bungie.

**Summary**: Newborn, they call her. As a baby Guardian - in more aspects than one - Cyra's got a lot of growing up to do if she ever hopes to be a full-fledged Guardian. But the Hive have taken an interest in these Newborn as well. . .

**Warnings: **Drama. . kinda. And by drama, I mean normal life activities. Nothing much this chapter. c:

**Author's Notes: **Alright, another chapter up!

The more I play Destiny, the more this starts to take shape. I love the Destiny universe and the Destiny lore. Everything I've been doing has been Destiny, Destiny, Destiny. Everybody I know is sick and tired of hearing me talk about what happened in my game. . . but I know they'll eventually buy a copy themselves if I keep up the pressure.

In any case! Not too much to say about this chapter. And while I do plan on spending some time during Cyra's training days, don't worry, well be hitting the fast forward button. I don't like long training arcs. In any case!

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>Cyra got a lot of impressions while she was sleeping. At times, she felt arms holding her, and at others, she felt like she was floating, nothing but air supporting her. Pain reverberated through her entire body, a fierce, anguishing reminder to her that no, she was not dead. In fact, she was the furthest thing <em>from <em>dead that there ever was. She was very much _alive_. Even then, trapped in the hazy lucidity of sleep, it was utterly mind blowing for her to even consider. She remembered death - she knew she'd been dead. But then, just like that, a hand had forced its way into the black and had yanked her from the abyss.

She'd been _dead_. The pain had been over - dying had freed her from the trials of life. She'd been liberated of. . . everything. And yet, there she was, trapped in a fleshy body again, slave and prisoner ro her own heartbeat.

Another impression interrupted her thoughts: arms again, touching her, brushing matted hair back away from her forehead.

"_All my years a Titan, and I've never seen one like you_." A voice murmured. She faintly recognized it, but she couldn't put a face to it. The voice continued, "_We've arrived at the Tower, disembarking now. No transmatting for you, yet. . . I think you've seen enough excitement for one day._"

His arms moved, sliding under her, attempting to be gentle, but pain speared through the left side of her chest, pulling her from the stony grip of sleep. She made a pained noise, wriggling halfheartedly in his hold, attempting to break free. In return, she heard a guilty hum.

"_Sorry, Newborn. You Hunters are so fragile - Warlocks, too, for that matter. Both Valore and Kesh have been blowing up my comm feed to find out how you're doing. Don't worry - we're about to give you to the Warlocks, and they'll get you fixed up. No interrogation sessions for you today._"

Cyra cracked open her eyes, although the effort sapped most of her strength. Beautiful, warm sunlight filtered over her, leeching heat into her bones and chasing away the bitter cold of the snow and ice. She didn't think she recalled a time where it _hadn't _been cold. . . did. . . did she? Cyra paused, and realized she didn't remember much of anything, now that she thought about it. Sure, the short talk with Captain Byron, and the lights of the plasma shots as they raced towards her. . . but that was it. Other than that, there was nothing but yawning blackness, much like the blanket of death.

"_Haha, I see those eyes. You're awake - that's good, Newborn, means the world hasn't killed you yet. Hold on - Valore? Valore, you're running low on LIght. Leave my comm feed alone and go to _medical_. I will personally knock you out if you don't. . . Sheehs. You'd think a Warlock would listen. Kesh decided he was feeling neglected and wanted more repairs, too, so he's going to medical deck. And you? You decided it would be a good idea to jump into a meat grinder. And they say Titans are a stupid bunch. . ._"

It was hard to focus on his voice for very long, primarily because it sounded like it was coming to her through a long tunnel. Still, she struggled to stay awake, and tried even harder to concentrate on what was going on. She heard more voices, the sound of footsteps, and blurry shadows fell into her vision.

"_Thank you, Titan_," A cool, calm voice said, "_We'll take over from here. The Newborn will be in the medical deck_-"

"_What if I want to know her status?_"

"_Then file a status inquiry with NURS-447, or speak directly to Ikora. Now, Titan, please give us the Newborn. Her Light is low, and her injuries are grievous. She will need time to heal. . . Oh, I believe you mentioned her Ghost in the comm_?"

"_Yeah, it's right there, under the breastplate - see it? I'm not sure if it's damaged. . . We weren't there for the whole altercation_."

"_The Hive are responsible for this, you say? Odd._"

Hands fluttered over her chestplate, searching for latches to release it. Cyra tensed, her mind hearing the voice of the little machine again. Run, it had said. If it died, so did she. And here it was, dormant under her armor, cracked and probably broken. Who were these people? And why were they trying to get to it? Just the thought of somebody touching the metal ball sent a lance of panic surging through her. Somehow, the hands succeeded in their quest, and the tight, protective, reassuring embrace of her armor fell away.

"_Damaged_," The calm voice assessed, "_But not beyond the point of salvaging_."

Fingers brushed against her chest, wrapping around something. . . and then it was gone.

Anxiety flooded her, giving her enough strength to move, to struggle against the arms holding her. _Give it back!_

She didn't know why the absence of the little metal ball terrified her, but it felt as though somebody were trying to take her heart away. Somehow, impossibly, Cyra managed to shove at the person holding her, and probably because they weren't expecting her to act out - she actually managed to fall. Though it was impossible at that point, Cyra landed on her feet, breathing heavily as she tried to orient herself. She swayed, feeling drunk and weak, but staggered forward anyway, looking for the metal ball. It was close, she could sense it, feel it like it was an extension of herself. She just had to get it back.

As much as she hated it from pulling her from death, the thought of dying again was not appealing. . . not yet, anyway. Not with so much undiscovered.

There.

Through the little flashes of light and color, she saw it, broken and its light flickering weakly, supported by a black-gloved hand.

A hand touched her, trying to pull her back, and she violently shook them away.

"_No_." The calm voice said, _"We will take care of this_."

She ignored everything, everyone, and shambled forward, intent on getting to that ball. It felt like it took an eternity, but she managed it, and reached for it, relief pouring through her when she finally laid her hands on it. The world felt a little more right with it in her grip again. The gloved hand, however, refused to relinquish it, keeping it from her.

She tried to speak, and at first the words didn't come out - but finally, she remembered how to talk again.

"Give it back," She rasped, her throat feeling like sandpaper, "Let go."

A chuckle. _"Spirited. You'll make it through this yet, Newborn._"

Lethargy was washing over her in waves, but she fought it. She hadn't taken back the metal ball yet. It seemed important that she should have it - vitally important. Darkness cobwebbed over her vision, and she tried harder, the world blurring as she kept prying at the black gloves, trying to get them to give her the metal machine. As her legs refused to support her, she swore she heard an amused chuckle as the world blinked into darkness, sleep claiming her again.

* * *

><p>She blinked, the world slowly coming into focus.<p>

Muted lights illuminated a stereotypically gray room. For a minute, Cyra was completely content to just lay there, somewhat surprised to feel a soft, contouring surface under her back. It had been so long since she'd slept on an actual bed, she'd almost forgotten what it had felt like. . . right? She didn't. . . Cyra shook her head mentally. She couldn't remember. She frowned, and closed her eyes, concentrating. In her mind, her memories were like hazy motes of light, lazily flickering back and forth, refusing to make any sense. For the most part, there wasn't much she could remember. She could replay the moment of her death, over and over again - the moment of Exodus failing, Captain Byron telling her to save as many as she could, the Fallen skiff. . .

And those creatures.

_What the hell are they? _Just thinking about them made shivers crawl down her spine. She'd never seen anything like them before, and she swallowed against a thickness in her throat as she remembered the one that had hovered in the air, stabbed her. . .

The memory continued, flashing in disjointed pieces in front of her. She could hear the voices, and then the light, the way it had poured liquid power into her veins. . .

_The metal ball!_

Cyra sat up - and immediately fell over. She caught herself on the side of the cot just in time, body already aching. It felt as though she'd been running for miles without stopping, and had then proceeded to run herself ragged in a firefight. . . Which was kind of what happened, in a roundabout way. Miraculously, however, there was no pain. Finally noticing that, Cyra looked down at herself, and she shifted in surprise when she found. . . nothing. No bandages, no hasty field dressings. She was covered by something light and airy, with ties down the side for easy slip-on and slip-off. Her hand shook as she lifted it and patted herself, checking for gaping wounds, but there were none.

"Claws," She murmured, her voice hoarse and raspy, "There were claws."

She could see the blood and the black goop pulsing out of the holes on her chest, the acid and the fire. . . Dropping her hand, she took in a steadying breath, and finally looked around her. She was sitting in the middle of a room, a gray room, but speckled on the walls were strange symbols. They pulsed and glowed, giving off the muted light she'd noticed before. As she looked at them, she realized she didn't know what the hell they were. She couldn't read them - they were alien to her. That should have alarmed her, should have frightened her, but Cyra had reached the end of her tolerance. She was tired of being afraid of the unknown.

She wasn't dead, so whatever the symbols on the wall meant, it had to be somewhat friendly. . . maybe. Still, it gave rise to other ideas: had she been kidnapped by aliens? What was up with the writing - was it a new system of letters in order to communicate so the Fallen couldn't understand what they were saying?

She'd never know unless she went out exploring.

Though fatigue was making every one of her muscles shake, Cyra forced herself to slide off the bed, and using it as a support, stood there as her legs shook and threatened to dump her on the floor. She swore under her breath as she peered around, looking for a door - oh. There.

The compulsion to find the little metal ball grew inside of her, along with Captain Byron. In all honesty, she couldn't discern which one was stronger - but she knew which one was more likely. The little metal ball was somewhere, she didn't know where, but an invisible tugging was telling her that it was nearby.

_Alright_, Cyra thought, steeling her resolve, _Just have to get through the door and follow the tug. I'll get there._

If her body would support her. Cyra shifted her grip, hand-over-hand, on the bed, and began to shuffle her way to the edge of it. From there, she was planning on making a brief dash for the wall and having that take a brunt of her weight. . .

Well, that had been the _plan_.

What _happened _was the door opening, admitting a. . . an alien.

Cyra stood there in stupefied shock as she stared at the woman. Well, she hoped it was a woman, anyway. She had absolutely gorgeous lavender skin, and short, glossy, impeccable black hair that fell to her chin. Her bangs were pulled up and clasped in the back, to keep them out of her face. Glowing, piercing blue eyes stared at her, and Cyra was fairly certain that those eyes could see right through her soul. Strange markings looked tattooed onto her face, and they crinkled as the woman smiled.

"Ah, I figured you would be awake. Veleth always underestimates Newborns. He believed you would be unconscious for another three days."

Without waiting to invite herself in, the woman crossed the room with an ethereal grace Cyra was instantly jealous of. She looked at the purple-skinned alien, blinking in shock at her garb. Robes, fitted tightly and spotted through with armor, covered the woman, bearing crests and symbols that looked the same as the ones on the walls. Up close, her beauty was even more enchanting, and Cyra was simply content to just stand there, gawking at her.

The woman came to stand next to her, and after glancing at her another time, gave her a quick once-over. The smile morphed into a knowing nod.

"I see. It will be at least another day before those tremors subside. Your Light is still weak - you were lucky to escape the Hive as you did."

Her voice was soft, light, lilting, enchanting. . . Cyra was sure she could go on for decades describing it. As it were, it almost made her stand still and stare at her more - but Cyra shook her head, regaining some of her wits about her. Clutching the bed tightly, she did her best not to fall over, and shivered when the woman grabbed her, steadying her.

"Who are. . . Who are you?"

"I am Ritasky."

"Rita. . . Rihat. . . Rita?"

"Ree-ta-sk. Humans always have difficulty pronouncing Awoken names."

"Rita?"

". . . Rita functions fine."

"You're a. . . an Awoken? I don't. . . Alien?"

She laughed, the sound something like chiming bells. "I suppose. Awoken are human. . . Evolved humans, but human still at heart. We've merely been exposed to space longer than you, to the Darkness. . ."

Awoken? Darkness? Evolved humans? Cyra shook her head again, a headache forming.

"I don't have time. . . Ball. Captain. Find."

The words came out staccato, and it hurt to try and talk. Her throat was already aching, matching the one growing in her head. More than that, it was just. . . It was like, in the time since she'd been asleep, her brain had somehow forgotten how to correctly form sentences. She was grasping at a half-empty dictionary, and it was hard for her to string together full sentences.

"You're talking - that's a good sign," Rita said, giving her shoulder a squeeze, "But let's lay down on the cot again-"

"Ball." Cyra said, shaking off her hand, "Captain. Have to find."

"Ball? Oh, your Ghost. Still in recovery, I'm afraid. It's somewhere close to the Traveler - it will be back with you soon, I promise."

"Captain! Captain Byron!" She said, becoming exasperated.

At that, Rita's face changed, a guarded look coming over her eyes. "Let's lay down on the cot-"

"Captain." Cyra said, refusing to move.

For a moment, the two stood there, at odds with each other, and finally, Rita offered her something of a sigh. "I don't know how to tell you this gently, Newborn. But your Captain is long dead. We can't access the records - most were destroyed with time - but we guess that he's been dead for roughly four or five hundred years. Our estimates are rough - it could be longer."

_Liar._

Cyra shook her head. "N-No. Lies."

"No lies, Newborn. Only truth. Think - when you were Reborn, you woke in the exact place you died. Blue Exodus. The buildings were rusted, the ship broken in half, the walls torn apart. . ."

Cyra wanted to deny it. She wanted to laugh in her face. But her words made her pause, and just like that, one of the hazy motes finally approached her, memories growing clearer. When she'd blinked, and the world had come into focus, she could see the ammo hut, the walls. . . all decayed. With _time_. Shock rippled through her, and as she remembered more, she realized the woman was telling the truth. She'd been so concerned with dying back then, that she hadn't really looked at her surroundings. But she had time to think about them now.

And somehow. . . She just. . . She just _knew_. She wanted to say no, the woman was clearly mistaken, but Exodus was right there, in her mind, for her to examine.

"D-Dead?" She echoed, her voice trembling.

Rita's face softened, and she squeezed her shoulder again. "Yes. But you are Reborn - your second life awaits you. All is not lost. The battle you waged in Exodus gave life to those who survived the fight."

Rita's words rolled right over Cyra. Captain Byron. . . Dead. The man had been something of a father to her, taking over when her parents had died. He'd been the one to teach her how to break down a gun in thirty seconds, clean it, strip it, how to carry it and aim it, how to sneak about, how to hide in the shadows. . . He'd taught her how to _live_. In her chest, her heart squeezed, and before she'd known what was happening, tears burned in her eyes and dripped down her cheeks.

She wanted to scream, wanted to sob and scream. It felt like her pain was ripping her apart, shredding her to pieces on the inside. Next to her, Rita shifted, as though she wasn't sure what to do, but then she patted the cot.

"Want to lay down?"

Cyra shook her head. She knew if she laid down, her lethargy would drag her into sleep, and if that happened, she'd dream. . . and she knew exactly who the focal point of those dreams would be. Rita sighed next to her, and then took her hand, and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Then no bed. How about a bath?"

Anything sounded better than going to sleep. Taking her silence as a yes, Rita began to walk, supporting all of Cyra's dead weight as she moved them out of the room. Cyra hardly noticed - the tears continued to crawl down her cheeks, and every now and then in sucked in a choppy breath of air. Her entire body shook, but if she were being entirely honest with herself, she wasn't sure if it was from the effort of keeping her sobs contained, or if her body was just ready to give up on her.

Rita guided her a short distance down the hallway, and entered another room. Sitting Cyra down, she rummaged around in a few cabinets before she was back at Cyra's side, her fingers working at the ties of the robe. Cyra let it happen, ignoring some tiny voice in the back of her head as it screamed, '_don't look at me! Don't look at me when I'm naked_!' Her body? She didn't care much about it. Her scars, on the other hand. . . Any notions of modesty were shoved aside as grief for Byron grew again.

Rita didn't let her stew in misery too long. She stood Cyra up, letting the robe slip off her completely, and then wrapped her up in a large swath of fluffy fabric. Tying it around her a few times, Rita guided her into another room, where hot steam washed over her. With the woman's hands guiding her, Cyra let herself be led into a pool of comfortably-hot water, and was guided to sit down on a ledge.

Cyra cried in silence as Rita sat behind her, her bare legs pressing against both sides of her. The purple-skinned woman began to talk, her voice echoing in the bath-chamber as she filled the silence. She washed Cyra's hair, taking time to massage her fingers through the lanky brown strands. In another time, another _life_, Cyra would have enjoyed the luxury, would have adored somebody taking so much time to pamper her.

As it were, her heart was heavy as a stone in her chest, and her sorrow kept her silent, her mind filling the voice with images of Byron.

* * *

><p>"Ritasky has sent an update stating the Newborn is awake." Ikora spoke, dismissing the holo feed with a wave of her hand. Next to her, Invective shuttered an optic in the air, looking to the Vanguard leader.<p>

"So soon?" Cayde asked, perking up.

Next to him, Kesh straightened from his work on the map, looking at the Warlock. The Newborn was awake already? A good sign. It meant that they had to have retrieved her before her Light extinguished.

Zavala looked up from his own maps, but merely offered a shrug. "The Newborn Titan we received less than two weeks ago was awake within three hours."

Kesh glanced at the Vanguard leader - everything always had to be a competition with Titans, didn't it? Still, the Exo looked down at the map, and satisfied with his handiwork, slid it over to Cayde, who looked troubled as he read it.

"I'd like to request to see her, if at all possible." Kesh said, looking at Ikora.

"I'll log it with Ritasky. . . She favors you too much, Hunter."

Kesh grinned at the human. "A perk of being her Mentor, no doubt."

A whisper of a smile glimmered on Ikora's face, but she called attention to the table by placing her hands down on its surface. Cayde shook his head, dismissing the map, and turned to Kesh.

"Alright, Hunter. From the beginning. Tell us everything."

Kesh did, leaving nothing out of his story. As he finished his story, he examined the faces of the Vanguard leaders - Ikora looked thoughtful, Zavala appeared troubled, and Cayde looked angry.

"The Hive have never been this bold before." Zavala said as Kesh grew quiet.

Cayde shook his own. "A Newborn. They attack _Newborn_. That's as cowardly as striking a human child! She hadn't been Reborn for more than five minutes!"

"More troubling," Ikora said quietly, "Is the purpose for such an attack. What have they to gain from attempting to kill a Newborn?"

Kesh shook his head. "Your guess it as good as mine, Ikora. Perhaps it was to get her Ghost?"

"Even so, such measures have never been taken before." Ikora returned. She finally looked up to Kesh, nodding her head. "Thank you for your report, Hunter. We will discuss this matter at length and report our findings to you and your fireteam. If this proves the same as the other cases. . ."

Kesh grinned, excitement speeding up his heart pump. "I've no doubt. And you know what my answer will be."

Cayde gave him a hearty whack on his shoulder, striking the cauldron there. "You know who our top choice will be, Kesh. Now, get some rest. You look like you could use it. We'll be in contact soon."

Kesh nodded, and respectfully taking his leave, he turned and strode out of the Hall. While he was concerned with the Newborn's status, it was excitement he found overshadowing it.

The Tower had been getting dull as of late.

Now?

Now, things were about to become interesting again.


End file.
